Bedding the Beast Read online

  She sat across from him and served herself.

  "A percentage," he repeated, digging into his food. "That's a good idea."

  Never, in the whole of her life, had a man told her she had a good idea. That she was beautiful, yes. That she was funny. That she was good with a needle. But never had she been ... smart.

  Francesca had been lucky to have a man like this. A man who would listen to a woman. A man who would share his decisions with her. A man who would please her in bed. She knew, from listening to married women, that many men cared only for their own pleasure.

  He'd given her so much pleasure. When she thought about the way he'd taken her from behind, her heart pounded. There had been pain, yes, but pleasure as well. Surprising, unusual pleasure that she'd never imagined. She'd had to touch her own privates to relieve the ache.

  How much better would it be, to have him take her fully? To have that big, hairy chest on top of hers? To have his cock moving in her pussy? John said that would be even better. It hardly seemed possible.

  She set her fork down and took a gulp of water. If what he'd given her so far was only the beginning, she was a fool to wait for Valentine's Day.

  * * * * *

  John got home less than an hour past sunset, trudging through bitter wind the whole way from Kathleen's place, thinking of nothing but Mariana.

  He'd thought of little else all day. Seeing her flit around the kitchen that morning, fixing him breakfast, talking with him ‑‑ it seemed right, somehow. Like she belonged there. With him. And when she'd mentioned money, the thought had struck him, like a bolt from the blue, that he wouldn't send her back for all the lire in Italy.

  It made no sense. No sense at all. But somehow she'd wormed her way into his life, into his bed. Just remembering how her warm body felt next to his was enough to bring him to a full cockstand. Yes, she was thin. Too thin to suit him.

  His cock didn't seem to care.

  She'd wanted to kiss him that morning. She'd actually wanted to kiss his ugly face in the light of day. And he'd been so shocked, so surprised, he'd jumped like a scared rabbit.

  Not tonight. Tonight, maybe ... maybe he'd see if she still wanted to kiss him in the light. Just the thought of looking at her naked body while he touched her set his imagination reeling. He'd worship every inch of her flesh with his hands ... spread her legs wide and study every nook and cranny of her pussy ... watch her face grow tight with desire as he thrust each finger inside her, one at a time, until she begged him to make her come. Then he'd tongue her slit, making her scream with pleasure ...

  He'd sit naked in a chair while she knelt at his feet, smiling up at him sweetly for a moment before she tipped her face into his lap ... licking his cock first, the little tease, then sucking him deep, blonde hair swaying. She'd tuck her hands between her thighs, rubbing her clit and moaning around his cock ...

  Oh, yes. Then he'd put her face down on the bed and lick her bottom hole until she squealed with pleasure ... and he'd lift her to her knees and fuck her in the ass, watching as his cock moved in and out of the dark, forbidden recesses of her body. His balls would smack against her hot, wet cunt with every thrust ... and she'd moan into the pillows, crying out his name, begging him for more.

  And next, oh, next he'd turn her over and fuck her proper. She'd cling to him, fingers tangled in his hair, and wrap those long, slender legs around his hips, holding him close.

  The images came too fast for him to catalog. He pictured her in a hundred different naughty positions, and had to stop in the barn to adjust his stiff cock under his trousers.

  He dropped the bundle he carried in an empty stall behind a pile of hay bales, where she wasn't likely to find it. Then he strode onto the porch and through the door. She sat at the table, sewing on that dark dress of her sister's. He gave her a brief nod and took off his coat.

  "Your hair," she said. "It's ..."

  "Shorter." He ran a hand through it self-consciously. "I figured I should get a decent haircut before we get married."

  She pushed her chair back. "You want food? Supper?"

  She looked so open, so eager to please him. He wanted nothing more than to please her in return. With the lamp blazing away, shining off that silky blonde hair. "Later."

  For once she said nothing. She just leaned forward to blow out the lamp. Damn it. But then she came to him in the darkness, came straight into his arms, and reached up to kiss him.

  He didn't have the nerve to re-light the lamp, didn't want to know if she could stand to see his beastly face. It didn't matter. All that mattered was this, her lips soft on his, her body warm against him, her hands running through his hair.

  He pulled at her clothes as they kissed, and she pulled at his, dragging off his shirt, his pants, his long johns. His arms tangled with hers as he yanked off her threadbare dress, her shift and drawers. She leaned on him as she kicked off her shoes.

  He bent to kiss her neck, biting gently, and she pressed her firm little breasts against his chest. Hungry. As hungry as he was.

  "I missed you," she said.

  Missed him? Or missed this, the passion she felt, the pleasure he gave her? Hell, he didn't care. He was here, she was naked in his arms, and all he wanted to do was revel in her sweet-smelling body.

  He pulled her to the bed, pushed her down, and knelt over her to suckle at her breasts. His greedy hand couldn't wait, reaching between her thighs, feeling her slippery cunt, her wet slit. She moaned, the sweetest sound he'd ever heard, and wriggled her hips.

  He slowed the rhythm of his fingers to a teasing touch. She whimpered.

  "What?" he asked, wanting to hear her beg. Wanting to hear her admit she needed him. "What do you need?"

  "More," she whispered. "Fast."

  He stroked over her clit, and she gasped. "I like your hand," she said.

  His vanity grew. His vanity, and his cock. "Good."

  "I like your mouth, too."

  He smothered a chuckle. By the saints, she was a demanding little piece. But he was more than happy to oblige.

  He knelt between her legs and stroked his fingers through her thick bush, parting the wiry hair, combing a path to her inner flesh. His hands slid under her ass, holding her still as he bent his head. His tongue separated her thick folds, licking, tasting her tangy juice, toying with her clit.

  She whimpered, a frustrated little plea, and he kissed her pussy hard, sucked her little bud between his lips and mouthed it, the way he'd learned she liked it just last night. Her thighs tightened against his head as she came, so quickly, with little jerks of her hips, jogging her splendid ass on his palms.

  After she was still, he moved up the bed, wiped his mouth on the sheet, and lay beside her. Maybe she'd return the favor, take him in her hot little mouth. Maybe he'd flat out ask her to. She sure hadn't been shy about asking him for what she needed.

  "John ... I want ..." Her voice faded away.

  She could have read his mind. "What? What do you want?" Whatever it was, he'd do it. Gladly.

  "Your cock," she said. "In my pussy."

  His breath caught. Could she really mean it? "What about Valentine's Day?"

  "You will marry me on St. Valentine's Day, yes? Even if I'm not ... virgin?"

  Had that been her concern all along? Her only reason for making him wait? "Of course I will."

  "Then no wait," she said. "Now."

  He wouldn't ask her again, wouldn't give her another chance to change her mind. But he could at least give her part of her silly romantic dream.

  He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed her fingers. "I take you as my lawful wedded wife. To have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. 'Til death us do part."

  "To love and to cherish," she added, in Italian.

  He knew he'd forgotten something. But he didn't repeat it. Love? That was one vow he couldn't keep.

  He fumbled blindly for the dresser next to the bed, opened the top drawer, and found the small box he'd buried there s
ix months ago. He opened it and pulled out Francesca's wedding band.

  It slipped easily onto Mariana's thin finger. "With this ring, I thee wed."

  She kissed him before he had a chance to kiss her first, her fingers holding fast to his shoulders. "Thank you, John."

  She said his name like an invitation, and he took it, rolling on top of her, nudging her legs apart with his knees. She willingly spread her thighs, making a cradle for his hips. He braced most of his weight on his forearms, his hands cupping her head.

  "With my body, I thee worship," he said, his voice thick with need.

  He found her lips with his, and kissed her gently. Her mouth trembled. Or maybe it was his.

  He rubbed his cock against her thigh, letting her get used to having him on top of her. She felt so tiny beneath him. Tiny and vulnerable.

  And he'd nearly forgotten to make it easier for her. Selfish beast. His head jerked back. No. No, he wouldn't think of Francesca tonight. Tonight Mariana was all that mattered. Generous, skinny little Mariana, who'd willingly given him every part of her body.

  He lifted his hips to one side and reached between her legs, pressing two fingers deep inside her. She clamped down on them so hard, he almost pulled them out and thrust his cock into her right then.

  But no, he'd wait. Just a few seconds more, a few seconds to get her ready for his cock. He spread his fingers wide, inside her, stretching them as far apart as he could. Stretching her open so she could take his cock.

  Little gasping breaths came into his ear. She would never be any wetter than this. She would never be more ready.

  He pulled his hand away and settled his hips over hers again. His cock found home, sliding through her wet folds, the tip nudging her virgin opening. He'd be inside her with one thrust.

  One quick thrust.

  One quick, selfish thrust that could make her despise him. Forever.

  Oh, God. What if he hurt her? Hurt her unforgivably?

  "John."

  She might hate him when he was done. Hate him, barely speak to him, skitter away whenever he was close enough to touch her. Just like her sister had.

  She stroked the hair on the back of his head. "Giovanni."

  His name, his real name. She'd been speaking to him. "What?"

  Her breath felt hot against his neck. "Just go in. Go in fast. The wait is far more terrifying to me." She spoke in Italian, her voice soft and calm. "Women have been surviving this since the beginning of time. I will survive, too."

  Of course she would survive. But he might kill any chance they had for a warm, caring marriage. Still, it must be done. And whether it was done tonight or on Valentine's Day, the result would be the same. His greedy cock ruled his head. He could wait no longer to breach her.

  "Forgive me," he breathed. Then he pushed inside her, all at once, breaking through the fragile barrier and plowing forward until the whole of his cock was buried deep inside her. She felt like heaven ‑‑ warm and wet, soft and welcoming.

  He stopped, fully lodged, panting. Her fingers were clutching at his biceps, her nails stinging. A tiny, insignificant pain compared to what she must feel.

  "Hurt?" He felt such pleasure, such anxiety, all confused together, that he couldn't seem to think, let alone speak. "Hurt bad?"

  "No bad," she said. "Not bad."

  God, her voice sounded like a whimper.

  He couldn't do this. He'd taken her virginity, but he didn't have to hurt her anymore. He'd use her hand, his own hand, to ease himself tonight. In a few days she'd be healed, and then he wouldn't hurt her at all. He'd wait a few days more to fuck her the way he longed to.

  He pulled back slowly, slowly withdrawing from the warm depths of her cunt. "I'll stop."

  Her fingers tightened on his arms. "No."

  She thrust her hips up, and his body resisted the wishes of his brain, sinking back into her.

  He groaned. "Let me stop. I'm hurting you."

  "No. No stop." She bit his neck, gently, a sharp nip that made him press his hips down, drove his cock just a little deeper.

  He nuzzled his cheek against hers and felt no wetness. At least she wasn't crying. But he knew she was in pain. He could feel her shuddering breath against his ear.

  "John, please. Give me ... give me your seed." She licked his earlobe, then thrust her pointed tongue into his ear. "You come inside my pussy," she whispered.

  He nearly came just from hearing the filthy words whispered in his wet ear, whispered in her soft voice.

  She lifted her hips against his again, nudging his cock deeper, and he was lost. He pulled back and thrust. And thrust again. Over and over again, hard and deep, mindless, grunting and swearing, oh God, God damn it, God help me, and suddenly he came with a great wrenching burst and one final, tremendous thrust that moved her hips up the bed nearly a foot. He held still, deep against her womb, shaking and spasming and shooting his seed, while a thundering roar echoed away. His own cry? And finally, spent and sweating, he collapsed on top of her like a felled oak.

  Damn it. God damn it. He'd sworn to be gentle with her. And instead he'd taken her like the worst sort of savage.

  He stirred and shifted some of his weight to his forearms, ready to withdraw, to move away. Bracing himself for her to sob hysterically and berate him and slap him until his face stung.

  Instead he felt slender arms slip around his back and hold him close. Her hands pressed down, keeping him inside her. "Was good?"

  He'd hurt her, caring for nothing but his own pleasure, and her only concern was that he enjoyed himself? His throat closed around a painful lump that felt the size of an apple. He could do nothing but nod, with his cheek pressed against hers.

  She sighed beneath him. "Good."

  "Next time ‑‑" His voice croaked. He had to clear his throat. "Next time, you will feel good, too."

  "Yes."

  She didn't sound sure of that. He'd work hard to please her next time. She'd never be disappointed in his bed. He should have added that to the impulsive marriage vows he'd made.

  The brush of her fingers on his cheek startled him. She smoothed them lightly over his forehead, his eyebrows, down his nose.

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "I am wishing to see you."

  He felt frozen, like a deer startled by a hunter. His cock was limp inside her, he'd just taken her virginity with no thought to her comfort, and she wanted to see his face. A face she damn well knew was uglier than sin. And if she wanted to see him so damned much, she wouldn't have blown out the light the minute he'd come home.

  He reached up and took that curious hand in his, moved it to the safer territory of his shoulder. "You know what I look like. You don't need to see."

  "Yes, but ... are you happy? Are you smiling?"

  No, he suddenly felt like crying. But he could never admit such a thing. "The way you speak half in English and half in Italian makes me smile. Smile ... sorridere."

  He touched one corner of her mouth with his forefinger, and found her lips curved upward.

  "You make me smile," she confirmed, using the English word he'd just taught her. "I'm glad you are ... I'm glad you're my husband now."

  And I'm glad you're my wife. His throat went tight again, closing off the words. Why couldn't he say it? It wasn't a lie. But to acknowledge such a thing openly gave her too much power. The power to hurt him.

  He pulled away and settled next to her. She came into his arms as if they'd lain together a thousand times, pillowing her head on his shoulder and resting one hand on his stomach.

  Could she truly be content in his arms? Generous and trusting, brave and passionate ... and pretty, in her own skinny way. So very pretty. He knew it even in the dark of night, when he couldn't see her at all. Her father could have had a king's ransom for this woman.

  Her head stirred, shifting so she could speak. "Do you think we ... planted a baby?"

  After one time? Not likely. "Babies come when they come."

  "But you would
be happy?"

  He could never tell her how much having children, a family, would mean to him. Better to let her think he was nothing but practical about it. "Sons could help me in the fields."

  "All men wish for sons."

  She sounded a bit wistful. Had she been anything more to her own father than a mouth to feed? A body to sell? He would do better by their own daughters. "If we should have a daughter, I will never give her to a man who cares nothing for her."

  She didn't answer. Suddenly he felt dampness on his skin, and her head left his shoulder.

  Now she cried, after the pain was over. He should have known he wouldn't be spared the tears. "I'm sorry it hurt. Next time it won't."

  She took a deep, shaky breath. "Not hurt bad."

  He could hear miserable tears in her voice. Should he hold her? Or leave her alone? She rolled away from him, making the decision for him. At least she didn't sob. She made no noise at all, lying still as a grave.

  But he knew she cried. He knew it. And he lay there, clenching his fists, grinding his teeth. Trying to keep his own eyes from filling.

  * * * * *

  If only the mirror were bigger. Mariana couldn't see much below her shoulders in this tiny mirror, not even after she took it off the wall. She leaned the glass against a pillow on the bed and surveyed herself critically. The dress was a bit loose across her shoulders, but at least the fabric curved neatly around her bosom, with a little room to spare. Between the fever on the boat and her incarceration at Ellis Island, she'd lost some weight. When she gained it back, she wanted this dress to fit.

  Her wedding dress. She'd barely finished it in time ‑‑ just this morning, the day before Valentine's Day. It fit better than any of the worn dresses she'd brought with her from Italy, so she may as well wear it today. And every day, until she had another altered.

  Did Francesca mind her wearing her old clothes? No disquieting words had popped into her head this morning, no breezes had stirred the curtains. Maybe her sister's soul was finally at peace. She hoped so. Bad enough that John didn't want her around; she certainly didn’t need a spirit complicating matters.